


A Puzzle To Keep Working On

by songquake



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU after Chamber of Secrets, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:31:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songquake/pseuds/songquake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco's not an idiot, really. But even he couldn't find any reason not to write in a diary that wrote back. And it's certainly comforting to have something to confide in, especially with Potter always hanging about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Puzzle To Keep Working On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Poinsettiaholly](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Poinsettiaholly).



> Written as a gift for Poinsettiaholly as part of the 2012 H/D Glompfest on LJ.
> 
> This is seriously AU; most of the canon events that _Chamber of Secrets_ were built around never happened, and while this conforms somewhat to _Half-Blood Prince_ , things happen rather differently. 
> 
> **Warning(s):** Dark stuff, violence.

**_August, 1992_ **

Draco's jaw dropped as he saw the thin volume with its black leather cover slip out of his father's hand and into the pile of texts that had fallen out of the Weasley girl's used cauldron. Why she was carrying a cauldron around at all was beyond him—didn't her family have the sense to at least shrink their purchases before toting them back to their hut? 

Why his father would want to _give something to a Weasley_ was even further beyond his ability to understand. 

So when his father and the Weasley father started arguing, and Potter and Weasley both looked like they were about to pummel him like the Muggles they so loved, he did what would restore order to his world. 

He shoved into Ginny Weasley, and when the books cascaded once more, he took that little black book _back_. 

 

**_August, 1996_ **

Draco hadn't thought about that little black diary in years. He'd investigated it enough to know it _was_ a diary, and that it was from an awfully long time ago, and then his twelve-year-old self had decided that diaries were for girls and sissies, and he didn't have need of it. 

Now, though, he did. And anything this need confessed about him, well, it was likely true. 

He began to write. 

"...my life. I wish I could find a way out." Draco started as the words he wrote in the diary disappeared even as he was writing. 

Handwriting, angled, neat, and old-fashioned, began to appear underneath where Draco's had vanished. " _Why do you hate your life?_ "

Draco blinked. Clearly this wasn't an ordinary diary. He slammed it shut and shoved it into the pocket of his robe. He'd have to investigate it more later. 

He might be desperate to confess his feelings to someone, something, but at sixteen, he wasn't a total idiot.

*****

Of course, it was easier to imagine researching a dodgy diary than to actually do so, especially with his father gone to Azkaban and the Dark Lord taking up the position of Head of the Most Ancient and Pure House of Malfoy.

Draco was certain there would be information enough in the family libraries to uncover what sort of enchantments were on this diary, if only he could be left alone to look for them. Because this project was _his_ , damn it. 

Also, he didn't want to admit to the Dark Lord that he wanted to write things that might be kept secret from him. He fully expected that anything he wrote could be demanded by his master, and kept a separate diary tracking his work on his assigned task, including any sense of frustration. 

It wasn't as though Draco was spending much time outside of the libraries, either; that "little project" required a fair amount of research as well. The way he would manage to curse or poison something well enough to take down the Headmaster of Hogwarts would be found in these rooms, no doubt. 

Then again, since Dumbledore was (at least according to Hogwarts gossip; one wouldn't dare to say this within hearing distance of those who bore his Mark) "the only wizard the Dark Lord ever feared," it wouldn't do to let his assassin research _unchaperoned_. Draco had heard others among the Death Eaters muttering that "young Malfoy might get uppity if he succeeds."

It was a testament to Draco's isolation that he'd begun to think in paragraphs, that the sentences in his internal monologues regularly employed semicolons. 

He reckoned that if he could talk to another person, even a fake person inside a charmed diary, he might start sounding his age again. 

Draco sighed. School wasn't set to resume for another two weeks. And since he hadn't found anything _too_ untoward in his brief search of the library (" _Accio_ texts on diary charms!" and " _Accio_ books on privacy wards!" had only turned up various techniques one might use to keep one's words private or at least in the family), he might as well see what the diary had to say to _him_. Or, er, what the diary might be willing to absorb from him. 

"Hello," Draco wrote. "I don't know what sort of enchantment you've got, Diary, but being that my words disappear, I suppose it's stupid to worry about others reading it."

" _Clever._ " The words trickled across the page, more fluid than a quill would typically allow, but at approximately the same rate. " _And I suppose you'd like reassurance that I won't tell anyone your darkest secrets?_ "

Draco chuckled. "I don't know that the people I'd be afraid of seeing my darkest secrets aren't the ones who gave them to me in the first place," he wrote. "But it would be nice to have someone to talk to about less... weighty things." 

" _Hmmm, like girls?_ "

Draco paused. Girls weren't quite his cup of tea, if he were being honest. Though he certainly wouldn't want the rest of the Death Eaters to know; most already thought he existed purely for their entertainment. It was only luck that their imaginations thus far had only extended to mocking him and his family. 

The diary didn't seem to like silence. " _...Boys, then._ "

"You've got me," Draco wrote. "Only, I've been so busy these past few weeks that I haven't had much thought for either."

" _Oh, really? What has kept you so occupied, then?_ "

"I"—Draco stopped briefly, brushing the end of his quill across his lips as he considered how to respond. He started over. "There's a war brewing, and my family's always been pretty active on the side of one of its leaders. My dad was captured by the other side whilst on assignment two months ago, and now I've been given a task that might normally have gone to him."

The black script was smooth. " _So in lieu of your father, your general has given you a promotion in his ranks?_ "

Draco hummed, trying to figure out how to explain his position without betraying it. The ink blotted in the book as he thought, disappearing almost as it puddled. "Promotion isn't quite the right word. I wouldn't normally even be given a rank—I'm still in school."

" _Rather an honour, then. I might be impressed._ "

The quill dripped a bit more ink into the parchment as Draco sighed. "You might be more impressed if I actually had a chance of success."

He bit his lip as the inevitable question emerged: " _Why do you think you haven't a chance?_ "

But he'd already confessed too much; were this diary to fall into the wrong hands, it could certainly incriminate him. And it was certainly _curious_ for a curio. 

Draco shut the diary and returned to researching deadly enchantments of objects.

*****

**  
_September, 1996_   
**

Now that Draco was back in his dormitory, he was glad he'd thought to pack the diary in his trunk. 

He still wasn't certain that writing in it was the _best_ of ideas, but it certainly seemed less risky than confiding in the other students at Hogwarts, even those he generally thought of as loyal (Greg and Vince) or clever (Blaise and Pansy). 

Because, positive qualities aside, Slytherins tended to be _gossips_. And anything they gossiped about could eventually make its way back to other Death Eaters, and eventually to the Dark Lord. 

And while Draco was focussed on his assignment to assassinate Professor Dumbledore, he reckoned that having captured Potter long enough to break his nose ought to have been long enough for him to use his Mark to alert—and therefore garner the favour of—the Dark Lord. 

Instead, he left the other bloke Petrified, bleeding, and invisible on the floor of the Hogwarts Express. It wasn't until after he'd slipped into one of the Thestral-propelled carriages that he had the idea to turn Potter over. 

And, of course, Pansy and Blaise were entirely too interested in what had held Draco up. 

"Bloody nosey so-called friends," Draco scrawled hectically across the page. "Can't do anything without them wanting to know why."

" _You've decided I'm a better confidant, then?_ " 

"You're sure not about to spill my secrets in idle chit-chat," Draco responded. "Especially as I've warded my school trunk to hex anyone else who tries to open it." 

" _And I suppose that's where you're keeping this diary all the time, then._ "

"Now that I'm back at Hogwarts." 

" _Oh, Hogwarts. Finest days of my life, really._ "

Draco was doubtful. "Really? But this diary is from many years ago." 

The response took a moment, as if the diary were considering what to say. " _I'm sure I had many better days after the year I wrote in this, but up to that point, my life was pretty dreary when I wasn't at school._ " 

Draco nodded, then realised gestures were likely not good for commiseration with a... book? A phantom? "I suppose," he wrote. "This was your diary, then? You're T.M. Riddle?"

" _Oh, I thought that would have been obvious,_ " came back. " _Yes, though I reckon that's a mouthful for a friend. And I could certainly use some friendly companionship._ " It paused again. " _Call me Tom._ " 

"I'm Draco." He thought for a moment. "You said you don't know what happened in your life after... the other you stopped writing in this diary. Does that make you like a portrait, then?" 

The writing paused again, but when it resumed somehow the quillmanship itself looked pleased. " _Something like a portrait. Yes._ "

*****

Harry's face hurt around the eyes and nose even a few days after Malfoy had stomped it; _Episkey_ seemed to have healed his nose only _mostly_. He had half a mind to ask whether Hermione had any bruise salve left over from Fred.

Of course, asking for it might cause her to launch into another lecture about jumping to conclusions. At least she hadn't made any pointed remarks about keeping his nose out of other people's business. Harry could feel the disapproval pulsing off her when he tried to raise the subject of what Malfoy could be up to. 

Because he was definitely up to something. 

And rather smug about it, too. 

Harry was determined to figure Malfoy out. Anything that could make the other boy look that self-satisfied had to be bad news. Not to mention, Harry had a broken nose to avenge.

*****

**  
_October, 1996_   
**

"I've really fucked it up this time," Draco wrote. 

" _Fucked it up? But how? You said you were already proficient in the Imperius Curse._ " 

Draco snorted. "Oh, that part went off without a hitch. The barkeep had no idea what hit her, and delivered the necklace to a stupid Gryffindor with no signs of even struggling against me. I even caused her to Imperius the Gryffindor chit—thanks for that idea, by the way—and it was all going so well." 

" _What happened?_ " 

The ends of the words were sharper, darker, as though Tom were scratching out his words in anger. Draco looked at them, his stomach twisting. 

"I suppose Rosmerta's Imperius wasn't as strong as it needed to be; I heard that the chit was cursed suddenly, without much warning. Rumour has it her friend was arguing with her to turn it in to the Aurors at the gate to school, and then she was found hanging in the air and screaming by stupid Potter." 

" _That other idiot Gryffindor?_ " Tom clarified. 

"Exactly. Always sticking his nose in other people's business. And now the Aurors have been involved—Katie Bell, that's the girl, she had to go to hospital, so there's an inquiry—and they'll likely trace it all back to me. And Dumbledore isn't even dead, for all my trouble!" 

" _Neither is Katie Bell._ "

"Yes, thank Merlin." Draco laid his head on the table alongside where he was writing. "I really don't much fancy killing anyone, even though I'm bound to finish my ~~assignment~~ assignments," he corrected. The one involving the Vanishing Cabinet wasn't going well, either. 

" _I wouldn't worry about it. It's the cost of waging war, bystanders getting hurt. Besides, she wasn't even a Pureblooded witch, was she? I don't recognise the name Bell from my days at Hogwarts._ " 

"Even if she were a Pureblood, she'd be a blood traitor—she's been close to Potter for the past eon, it seems. They play Quidditch together, and the Gryffindor team has always been even more... clingy than Slytherin. Still, I hate accidentally causing harm. That's just not on." 

A moment passed before Riddle's scrawl returned. " _So your problem with it is that it shows... carelessness?_ " 

"Exactly!" If Draco were writing into conventional parchment, his quill might have pierced the paper as he dotted the exclamation point. "Accidentally murdering and maiming students just shows me... incompetent." He sighed. "I'm half-convinced that the Dark Lord already thinks me incompetent. No need to reinforce the idea."

" _Oh, Draco..._ " The words here were smooth; the ink shone. " _I'm sure your Dark Lord wouldn't give a task of such importance to someone he thought incompetent._ "

"Ha! He might if he were looking for a reason—any reason—to punish me and my family. With my dad out of reach, my failures give him a...proximate reason to kill me and my mum." Draco frowned, the truth of his words surprising him.

" _Then we shall find some other way to get to Dumbledore and show your Dark Lord how gifted you are. Now, what do you know of tasteless, colourless poisons?_ "

*****

**  
_December, 1996_   
**

Harry _absolutely_ knew Draco Malfoy was up to something. 

He knew it even without overhearing Snape offering him _aid_. That was a serious bit of confirmation, though. It made Harry want to carry around the Marauders' Map all the time in addition to his Invisibility Cloak. 

And he thought he even knew _what_ Malfoy was up to. 

Of course, a friend and teammate in hospital for two months was nothing to sneeze at. And since then, there hadn't been any more foul play. Well, beyond the foul play typical of Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch matches. 

Hermione and Ron seemed to think that this meant that whoever (or whatever) had cursed the necklace had decided that was enough fun. They also thought Malfoy would publicly gloat if he were closer to achieving something that would bring _actual_ glory to him, like recruiting more students to the ranks of the Death Eaters, or injuring key figures on the side of the Light. 

"It just doesn't make sense, Harry," Hermione would say, "not to keep trying to hurt Dumbledore, if that's what the person behind Katie's curse was trying to do." 

"Besides," Ron would add, "what are the chances that Malfoy is powerful enough to do an Imperius relay?" 

Harry had to admit the so-called Imperius relay was an impressive bit of magic, well outside what could normally be attributed to an underage wizard without qualifications beyond the OWL level. Still, he couldn't help but notice how shaken Malfoy had looked after it had been announced that Katie had been carried off to hospital, nor how drawn and red-eyed he was looking as the autumn term dragged on. 

One might think that having private tutorials with Dumbledore would have given Harry ample opportunity to air his concerns and be assured that the Headmaster was diligently investigating any and all leads about what had gone on earlier that term, what with horridly cursed Chasers and Imperiused barkeeps. But Dumbledore, during Harry's lessons, remained vexingly focussed on his curriculum. 

"My dear boy," he'd finally said, his voice taking a tone that brooked no argument, even from a sixteen-year-old, "it is of the utmost importance that you attend to _this_ set of problems." He indicated the Pensieve in the corner of the office. "Unless, of course, you think that you will be of greater use in the war effort by running after another student?" 

Harry didn't think that the two activities were mutually exclusive, but he knew a closed road when he saw one. 

"No, sir," Harry had said with a sigh before proceeding to listen to the lecture about Tom Riddle's early life. 

Tom Riddle was a nasty piece of work, even as a child. He didn't even seem to _want_ friends. Minions, perhaps. Death Eaters. 

It rather reminded Harry of another nasty Slytherin. 

With Dumbledore unwilling to pursue the leads Harry had shown him earlier, and even greater evidence now that Draco (and perhaps Snape as well) was involved in some activity well beyond the bounds of what normally went on at Hogwarts, Harry began a campaign of surveillance of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle.

*****

Had Draco been speaking rather than writing, his voice would be approaching a wail. Even now his throat felt tight from holding back his panic. "I'm going to fail, and my mum and I are both going to die!"

" _What happened, Draco? What has got you so distraught? Tell old Tom—perhaps we can work out a solution together._ "

"Professor Snape—he's the Head of Slytherin House, rather something of a mentor to me, he's also with the Dark Lord—he... he knows of my assignment." 

" _He does? How do you know?_ "

"He—he confronted me about it this evening. Said I'm already suspected of the mess with Bell, said I'm being foolish and making elementary mistakes. Just because that nasty Squib caught me out-of-bounds on a night when half my year is at a stupid holiday party anyway." Draco sniffed. "As though a Squib has any right to a staff position here, anyway."

" _That is rather a disgrace. And he has power to discipline students?_ "

"Filch? Yeah, and he oversees a good number of detentions. But that's beside the point."

" _Indeed. You were speaking of your Head of House._ "

"He's offered to assist me. Which would only make the Dark Lord think me weaker than he already does. Besides—" Draco was unsure whether to finish the thought at all; he didn't want to believe it, but Severus Snape was a Slytherin _par excellence_ and even more ambitious than most. 

" _Tell me. What are you afraid of?_ "

"Professor Snape. He'd just steal my glory by killing the Headmaster himself. He's probably got a million poisons better than the one I've put in the old man's Yule gift." 

" _Perhaps. But you've finished creating the gift, then?_ "

"Yes."

" _How... exciting._" 

Draco felt a bit sick as he wrote, "Indeed. And it will be a relief once I've done this and know we're all safe." He bit his lip and added, "I'm particularly looking forward to having a Christmas holiday where the Dark Lord is celebrating my work rather than torturing my mum." 

The writing paused. Draco feared that Tom might be able to tell he wasn't thrilled to be closer to successful murder, that Tom might despise his weakness, that Tom might mock him for it. 

Instead, the words began to flow with less precision, as though all important discussion was past and they could get to more pleasant topics. 

" _And socially? Is that Potter bloke still following you around? You said he's annoying, but it does sound like he might fancy you._ " 

The Diary (as Draco still sometimes thought of Tom) was teasing him. 

Draco shook off the sense of betrayal at the fact that the Diary didn't care about his mum's welfare. Instead, he laughed—for what seemed the first time in weeks—and began to write about the sort of boys that were actually fanciable.

*****

Christmas was awful.

The Dark Lord would not brook any excuses as to why Dumbledore continued to live. 

"My Lord," Draco pleaded. "I have sent him a bottle of mead heavily laced with Paralysis Potion. Even a few sips ought to stop his breathing, stop the beating of his heart. It's only Christmas Day today; just give him a few weeks to begin working through his gifts, and we'll be sure to have him. After all, have you ever known Dumbledore to turn down something sweet?" 

" _Crucio._ " The curse was cast in a tone that suggested boredom, though the pain causing Draco to convulse on the marble parquet of Malfoy Manor's grand ballroom conveyed a strong message of displeasure. Anger. Impatience. 

Draco couldn't make out the nuances of the Dark Lord through the scrambling of his brain against his skull. 

When the curse finally receded and Draco hauled his trembling body up to a kneeling position, the Dark Lord finally spoke. 

"You're fortunate that I am merciful, and that I have greater use for you alive and able to carry out my orders, no matter how inept the attempts are. However, if your... _ineptitude_ does not diminish, be assured that your life, and your mother's, _will_ be forfeit." 

"Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort's eyes glowed like Mars on a summer night. "Good. Now, how is your other task going?" 

Draco took a deep breath. "I have determined the defect in the Hogwarts Cabinet, but haven't had all the proper tools to repair it. I've already persuaded Borgin to donate his tools to the Cause, however, and shall carry them back with me when I return to Hogwarts for winter term." 

"Good. Send word through Severus when it is ready."

*****

**  
_January 1997_   
**

Draco supposed he shouldn't be shocked that Dumbledore was still alive. Surely, if the poisoned mead had been successful, a notice would have been owled home, the term postponed, or some sort of acknowledgment rendered. 

There was nothing. The students filed on the Hogwarts Express as usual; they rode with their typical mix of exuberance to catch-up after the winter hols and dismay that they would have to return to lessons already. 

Draco hated all of them. Lessons! Those who dreaded them didn't know what dread was. After weeks of fearing the Dark Lord's impatience, _he_ was grateful to be alive, thank-you-very-much. He was grateful to escape the home crawling with Death Eaters trying to make themselves appear ever more triumphant in the service of the Dark Lord. 

The upside to being at the Manor for so long was that he'd been able to brew a fair bit of Polyjuice Potion. With repair of the Vanishing Cabinet his priority just behind the assassination, Draco would likely need help sneaking around—help both in not being caught around the Room of Hidden Things too much and in disguising Crabbe and Goyle when he needed lookouts.

For Draco had no doubt that Potter would continue stalking him. That was just the kind of luck Draco had these days. Thank Merlin his friends were more loyal than curious. 

But this first night back was not the time to introduce them to the fun of personal transfiguration. Instead, Draco pulled the curtains tight around his bed and wrote. 

"Hi, Tom. The old codger is still alive. Either the poison didn't work, or he didn't drink it. But he's definitely still around—I saw him at the teachers' table at supper." Draco had been confiding his fears to Tom during the break, but since the Dark Lord had been more patient than Draco had any reason to expect, he hadn't felt the need to brainstorm a strategy beyond what he'd already set into motion. This, he now realised, had been a tactical error. 

" _How unfortunate. Do you have another plan yet?_

"None. None at all. Unless I walk up to him with a nice Avada Kedavra ready to go."

" _That would probably be effective, would it not?_ "

Draco wasn't sure it would be; his hands had trembled even when his Aunt Bella had tried to tutor him in the other Unforgivables. Still, even in his Diary, it wouldn't do to confess that. "It would kill him, yes. As far as I know. Even if Harry bloody Potter can survive the Killing Curse, there's no reason to think Dumbledore can; Potter's a freak of nature anyway. But I'm not likely to be able to catch him alone, and I doubt I'd enjoy my survival if it meant being sent to Azkaban and Kissed." The last two words showed the trembling of a quill held too tightly in his hands. He put it down, stretched his hands, and breathed as he waited for Tom to respond. 

" _True. Well, there might be a way for me to help you out. And it would be, shall we say, more subtle than Avada Kedavra_." 

Draco blinked; his face hurt from all the feelings he couldn't identify when he read that. "Really? Are you serious? What do you think I should do?"

" _It might be easier to show you, I think._"

He didn't even know how to respond to that; they'd only ever exchanged words before. Draco scrawled a question mark, underlining it heavily.

" _This Diary should work like a Pensieve. Have you ever looked in one of those?_ " 

Draco hadn't, though he knew his father owned one. He'd never wanted to examine his own memories, however, and there was nobody in his life who... well, trusted him that much. 

"No," he wrote. 

" _Hold the book, and just keep looking._ " 

The pages fluttered, but seemed less parchment-like. They seemed to be fluid, then transparent and shiny like glass. And then, as an image began to resolve behind it, Draco felt himself being pulled forward and the rest of the world going topsy-turvy until he was standing with another boy, one with dark hair and eyes and a smug smile on his full lips as he regarded himself in the mirror above a basin. 

"Tom?" Draco said. "Is that you?" He reached toward the other boy, but his hand seemed to go through him, as if Draco were a ghost in the scene. 

Which he supposed he was, almost. In fact, as far as Tom-he-could-see was concerned, Draco was even less present than a ghost. 

It was rather what Draco had heard watching a Pensieved memory was like. So he looked around. 

He was in a loo. It was a Hogwarts loo, as far as he could tell; the arrangement of toilets and sinks seemed about right, though more chipped than any Draco had ever seen, the stones an approximate roughness, the ceramic tiles of the floor familiar. There was no sunlight coming through the high windows; further examination showed a sliver of moon. The room was oddly bright, though, considering most students didn't use the more institutional-style toilets in the classroom corridors when they weren't between lessons. Draco himself had needed to light torches when stopping off in them during his Prefect rounds. 

Draco's gaze was interrupted by the sound of Tom speaking. His voice was clear, sweet, and higher than Draco had expected. It sounded like no other human voice—no other _voice_ —Draco had ever heard. Tom said, "O entrance to the Chamber of Secrets! In the name of Salazar Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four, I command you to open!"

With a roaring crunch, the hole in the bottom of the basin opened, gaping into a pipe that was much too large to be meant only to carry water away. It looked to Draco like a person could crawl into it. He shuddered at the notion that _he_ might be required to do so. 

Tom smiled then, fondness in his eyes. "My beautiful monster, dearest Colubra, come up to me!"

Behind them, the door of one of the toilets banged open. Draco swerved around to see what the commotion was. 

"BOY IN THE GIRL'S TOILET!" shrieked a chubby girl, her eyes and face puffy and glasses askew on her face. "What are you _doing_ here? Get out!" 

And she would have kept screaming, Draco was sure, if she had not just fallen down, eyes glassy behind her dated spectacles. Her colour looked off. Draco moved a bit closer, and saw no sign of breathing. 

It seemed the girl had just dropped _dead_. 

And yet Tom was still talking. "Oh, Collie, it's so good to see you. I wish I could look into your eyes, but I see you've grown to full power now. It's your first kill!" He was crooning. "Well done." 

Draco thought it might be better if he avoided the monster's eyes as well, but he looked over to where Tom was, and tried to follow the other boy's gaze. 

What he saw was a snake even larger—and, it seemed, more lethal—than the Dark Lord's own familiar. 

Astonishingly, it spoke back to Tom in plain English. "Master, may I eat it?"

Draco could sense its pride, and Tom's. "No," the other boy responded, and Draco noticed that Tom was stroking what might be called the snake's chin. "No, I think we need to leave this one as a sign to others of how powerful we are." 

And then Draco was lying on his bed again, breathing hard. He blinked several times, looking at his bed coverings to remind himself that he was indeed safe and alone in his own bed. 

Alone except for the Diary. That was still sitting beside him, his quill tossed to its side. He picked both up. "That's some memory, Tom. That was you, wasn't it?"

" _Yes. And Colubra should still be in the Chamber of Secrets; I left her in a magical hibernation after that year..._ "

*****

**  
_February, 1997_   
**

As if the mystery of what Malfoy had been up to all year and the quest to learn more about Horcruxes wasn't enough, now Harry was _hearing_ things. A voice coming from the walls, making comments about ripping, tearing, killing... 

It was rather creepy. Especially as nobody else seemed to hear it and Harry never had his Map on hand to check and see whether there was someone about when it spoke. 

Even more frustrating was how Ron and Hermione were treating his reports of the Voice in the Walls, as Harry had begun to think of it. Especially the day he heard it speak about needing to " _...SEEK THE ONE THE PALE ONE NEEDS..._ "

"Did you hear that?" Harry said, stopping dead still in the corridor on the second floor. 

"Hear _what_ , Harry?" Hermione said, her tone more impatient than Harry thought was warranted. 

"I heard that voice again! It's..." Harry put a finger to his lips and listened hard. "It's saying it needs to find someone? Something? For 'the pale one.'" He grimaced. "Not too many pale people around here, though! I bet the Voice in the Wall is working for Malfoy!" 

He started walking in the direction the Voice seemed to be headed, but found himself caught by the wrist. "Mate," Ron said sharply. "How much time have you been spending chasing Malfoy lately?" 

Harry stared at him. "I haven't been _chasing_ him," he said flatly. "I've barely _seen_ him. Except on the Map—" 

"Exactly!" Hermione broke in. "You keep trying to catch him out by looking at that Map of yours, but you haven't caught him doing anything because there's _nothing to see_. And you've been spending so much time thinking about him that you've barely done anything to complete that... extra work Professor Dumbledore gave you." 

Harry shrugged. Frankly, after his first abject failure to win Slughorn's confidence regarding a certain memory of his, he thought he was rather more likely to work out what Draco was up to. 

"And your _studies_!" Hermione continued, but Harry'd had enough. 

"My studies are _fine_ , Hermione! I'm doing fine in most of my lessons, and still better than ever before in Potions." And it was true. Well, at least the bit about Potions. The rest of his marks were fine, if one considered "fine" and "Acceptable" to be synonymous.

"Potions!" she huffed. "It's not like you're doing that well in Potions by your own merit!" 

"I've just got a better study guide than you have!" Harry protested, but cut himself off. "And bugger all, but you've made me lose track of the Voice in the Wall! Now I won't even know what it's looking for!" 

"And is that such a bad thing, Harry?" Hermione asked. "Do you _need_ to know everything?" 

"Cauldron, kettle, Hermione?" Harry retorted, and grinned when he heard Ron snort. He started down the corridor again. "C'mon, maybe I'll pick up some more talking..." 

They turned a corner... and saw an awful scene. 

"Oh, God," Hermione murmured, a hand flying to her mouth in horror. 

A puddle seemed to have seeped from under the door of the girls' lavatory. In the centre of it, stiff as a board, lay Mrs Norris. 

"Who could have done this?" Ron said, stupidly. 

The blood graffiti on the walls rather announced it to the world, Harry thought. "THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED," it shouted. "ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE!" 

They just needed to find out what the Chamber of Secrets—and who its heir—was.

*****

**  
_March, 1997_   
**

Draco wasn't sure how his life had got so out of control. Since that night in February when he woke covered in feathers and blood, and heard the rumours of a dead cat and seen the horrid words on the wall outside the bathroom that led to the Chamber, he'd woken several times in odd places, with odd smells and dried messes on his robes. 

Well, he did know how his life had got out of control, he supposed. Trusting a Diary—a _sentient_ Diary—may not have been the wisest course of action. 

This morning, he felt even more tired, more achy, than usual. And there was blood on his robes again. He groaned, then rolled over and pulled the Diary out from under his pillow. He used his other hand to cast a _Lumos_ against the darkness inside his bed drapes and grab his quill. 

"What did we get up to tonight, Tom?" he asked, no longer even bothering to ask whether his task from the Dark Lord was completed. "Any more Petrified students?"

" _Even better, my Draco,_ " Tom's familiar handwriting replied. Draco was never sure anymore whether he was pleased or horrified to be called _Tom's_. " _Tonight, Colubra finally found the old man._ "

"And?" Draco couldn't even find a memory of hope inside him, but he was still curious. 

" _Dead._ " The writing almost bounced out of the page with self-satisfaction. 

"The headmaster's dead?" The question mark was mostly for the sake of proper grammar. Draco knew the Diary wouldn't lie to him. Manipulate the truth, yes, but not lie. At the Diary's confirmation, Draco continued. "Then I suppose I can be free now, just concentrate on my studies." He felt something that might have been a shadow of relief. 

It was short-lived, however. 

" _Oh, but Draco_." The writing on the page was confident. " _I have plans for us._"

Not for the first time, Draco wished he could find a way out.

*****

**  
_April, 1997_   
**

Since Dumbledore's death, an odd pall had settled over the castle. Lessons continued, and Quidditch, but students were required to travel in groups, accompanied by a staff member at all times. The dormitories were generally regarded as safe for some reason, but the Heads were now sleeping in their Houses' Common Rooms. 

If they were sleeping, that was. Harry had never actually seen McGonagall take even a kip on the small camp bed in the corner of the Gryffindor Common Room. Also, they were all looking haggard. 

Harry supposed he was looking haggard as well; he hadn't been arsed to pay attention to the mirror lately, but he knew his sleep was utter crap and the grief he was trying to ignore had taken his appetite. 

He hadn't heard the Voice in the Walls since Dumbledore's death. This wasn't for lack of trying; Harry felt like he spent most of his time in the halls listening carefully, trying to hear the Voice through the chatter and roar of the student body. Even when the hallways had been quiet, it was hard to hear the Voice, but Harry was pretty sure that it hadn't spoken; he hadn't felt the tingling in his ears which had accompanied its presence in the past, either. 

It all made Harry think that his mentor had been the one the Voice had been trying to find, trying to kill. 

At least Dumbledore had looked... _peaceful_ when he'd been laid out for burial. Not that Harry had been to many—any—funerals before, but he'd seen people die, and rarely had they seemed so okay with it. They tended to have gaping mouths or grimaces. Not... smiles. 

Harry had not given up on figuring out what Malfoy was up to, either, but the inability to get past McGonagall at the front door to the Tower made investigating more difficult. 

Though not as difficult as looking for Horcruxes, which was a project it seemed Harry would have to carry on, alone, after leaving Hogwarts for the summer. The thought of it all gave Harry a headache, though he supposed he could bear that with little complaint, since it was just a regular headache rather than the monstrous pain he felt himself in when Voldemort was feeling something particularly strongly. 

Still, Malfoy at least was a puzzle he could keep working on. He was not looking like himself lately. His hair was clean and slicked back as usual, of course, and he continued to hold himself utterly straight, the habit of it so built into his muscles that Harry doubted he could ever slouch. He might have admired it; in the past he'd found Malfoy's posture and arrogance infuriating but irresistible. 

Now he just wanted to look away. 

Malfoy looked tired; there were circles under his eyes and hollows under his cheekbones, making him look even pointier than usual. That in itself wasn't it, though. What disturbed Harry was the way Malfoy's eyes had lost their light, their personality, their way of communicating his emotions. The way his eyes had lost all sign of intelligent life behind them. Malfoy didn't even glare at Harry any more.

Carriage aside, his personality had certainly decided that now was the time to keep his head down. It was disconcerting at best, horrifying at worst. It was like the git Harry had been in school with for five—nearly six—years was gone. 

Which was why Harry was gobsmacked when the note fluttered to his worktable as Malfoy passed him in Potions. 

"What's that?" Hermione whispered. 

"Dunno," Harry said, blinking. He looked to the front of the room, where Slughorn was marking essays. Shrugging, Harry unfolded the slip of parchment. 

_Potter_ , it read. _I want out. Please meet me after Potions in the second floor girls' toilets. Come alone._

It was unsigned, but then, it didn't need a signature when Harry had seen the person who wrote it. Harry felt a twist of excitement in his belly. Surely, if Malfoy was saying he wanted out, he'd tell Harry just what he'd been up to all year. 

Harry nodded once to himself, decisively, then looked across the room. He caught Malfoy's eye and nodded again at him. 

He did not notice the bit of red that flashed in Malfoy's pupils.

*****

Draco had barely had time to register the success of his overture to Potter before the cold voice curled through his brain. _My, Draco, what_ do _you think you're doing?_

Draco trembled. _I'm not doing anything you need to care about,_ he thought, though it was a lie and he didn't think he had a chance of fooling Tom-in-his-head. 

_Oh, I beg to differ,_ Tom snarled at him, but calmed soon enough and sent that cool, soothing presence through Draco's head. _I believe, dear Draco, that given your treachery, I ought to be in charge for a bit, don't you think?_

Draco didn't think; Tom had taken full control of his body and soul once more.

*****

Harry had been expecting an anxious, contrite look on Malfoy's face when he opened the door to the girls' loo. He expected a little fidgeting of hands, perhaps an offer of a handshake, or a wand held out in truce position.

Instead, Malfoy was leaning against one of the basins, wand dangling from his fingers in a purposely-casual sort of way, a nasty smirk on his face. 

"Harry Potter," he drawled. 

Harry saw a red glow in his eyes, and within an instant had levelled his wand at the other boy. "Who are you?" he demanded. Malfoy had never called him by his full name, not in years, and never without being utterly sardonic about it. 

Not-Malfoy chuckled. "Oh, from what I've heard, we've met before. My name is Tom Riddle." 

Harry's eyes widened. "What have you done to Malfoy, then?"

Riddle laughed, high and cold like he always did, and Harry couldn't believe that it had taken him so long to recognise the voice of Voldemort, even younger and more honeyed than it was at present. He had, after all, spent autumn and winter terms listening to a young Tom Riddle in Dumbledore's collected Pensieve memories. 

"He's still in here," Riddle said, clearly enjoying Harry's discomfort. "Though he's trying to resist in a way that's really unattractive. I have half a mind not to let him out again." Riddle stretched. "Besides, it is rather nice to have such a young body to play with." He reached up and stroked the side of his own neck. "I'd forgotten how nice it is to live inside skin." 

Harry felt sick. He met Riddle's eyes and felt his scar split open. He raised his hands to cover it, cover his eyes, and he swore. 

"What's wrong, Harry Potter?" Riddle looked smug. "Can't stand the sight of me?" 

Harry grimaced. "Not at all," he said, looking up. "It's hard enough to have to look at Malfoy; it's killing me to cope with you, too."

"Oh, poor wee Potter," Riddle sneered. "Forced to spend time with the two men he _obsesses_ over. I just suppose this wasn't how you _wanted_ to find Draco." 

"What I wanted," Harry bit out, "was to discuss what Malfoy meant with his note. But I suppose it was just a trick to get me here, yeah, Tom?" 

Tom bared Malfoy's teeth. "Not a trick. This idiot thought he could get away from me. But now... well, I'm strong enough now to really _live_ in him. No more of this half-life. No more waiting for the right moment." 

Harry snorted. "No more waiting, eh?" Actually, _he'd_ had enough waiting. He raised his wand. " _Incar_ —" 

" _Crucio!_ " Riddle's voice was bored as he cast. 

Harry screamed, the pain burning through all his nerves, contorting all his muscles. He could barely think, yet kept enough of his mind to realise he'd need to be able to fight as soon as he could move his limbs. He ran through the spells he knew; _could_ he cast the Killing Curse? 

At this point, he'd cast _anything_ to make the pain stop. 

Just as suddenly as the pain had seized his body, the pain released it. Gasping, Harry felt on the floor for his wand and hauled himself to his feet. 

Malfoy's face looked as though Riddle was impressed despite himself. "Ready for more, Harry Potter?" 

_Shit._ Harry didn't want to kill Malfoy, but suspected that—unless someone could come along to rescue him— the Killing Curse would be his only way out of this bathroom. 

Which was crappy, since he really _wasn't_ sure he could cast it with enough _meaning_. But there was that spell... the one in the Half-Blood Prince's book that said " _For enemies_." 

Riddle reared up his arm, and as Harry recognised the motion, his decision was made. Riddle barked, " _Avad—_ "

" _Sectumsempra_!" cried Harry, finishing his curse first because it was fewer syllables. As he slashed his wand through the air, he saw Riddle's— _Malfoy's_ —shirt part, the skin beneath it likewise parting and blooming with red. Blood pulsed like water out of a bubbler; Harry realised with horror that he'd likely cut through an artery—he might have cut through Malfoy's _heart_! 

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," he chanted under his breath, and sent a Patronus for back-up. "Go to Madame Pomfrey; tell her there's been a duel in the second floor girls' loo. Then go to McGonagall and Snape, and tell them the same."

As the white stag left, a high scream, one that reminded Harry of a banshee, came from the body in front of him. Except that it didn't come from Malfoy's lips; it seemed to come out of his being itself, along with a black mist that swirled around, seeking direction for a moment. Rather than diffusing, the mist coalesced and like a swarm of bees flew into Malfoy's open rucksack. 

Into a book that had a black leather cover with the letters "TMR" embossed on the front. 

At that, Harry tore off his shirt, hoping that help would be there imminently, but needing to do _something_ to help Malfoy—he was pretty sure it was only Malfoy in there now. 

"Malfoy! Open your eyes!" he shouted as he got to his knees, trying to push the separated muscles and skin together. There seemed to be gallons of blood. 

Malfoy gasped, spitting out blood. He was so pale under the red. "Trying to finally murder me, Potter?" he rasped. 

"Fucking trying to save your life, git," Harry retorted as he pressed his shirt around Malfoy's chest. "Staff are on their way. Pomfrey." 

Malfoy tried to nod, but seemed to be fading. "And...?" 

"Riddle fucking flew out of your body when I hit you with the curse. Malfoy, _what the fuck did you do_?" 

A tear slid out of the corner of Malfoy's eye. "I was..." 

But Pomfrey burst in, followed by Snape, and the two took over both the conversation and the treatment. And Harry was left trying to explain to McGonagall why two students, who were supposed to be in the Great Hall eating supper with the rest of their schoolmates, were instead duelling in a disused lavatory.

*****

It was several days after the "duel" in the bathroom—days largely taken up with convincing Snape and McGonagall that he oughtn't be expelled for duelling by argument and examination of his memories in Dumbledore's old Pensieve by the Acting Headmistress—that Harry finally convinced McGonagall to let him visit Malfoy.

"You nearly cursed him to death, Mr Potter! Why would you think we would let you near him? Why would you think he'd be willing to see you?" 

Harry closed his eyes and counted to five. "I was there because he asked me to meet him there, Headmistress. Here, this is the note he passed me in Potions." 

McGonagall grunted as she took the note. "I would have hoped you boys would have learnt not to pass notes. I shall have to let Professor Slughorn know that he needs to keep a tighter rein on in his lessons." She looked at it and sighed. "Yes, that looks like Mr Malfoy's handwriting." She shook her head, muttering about idiot children. 

"So may I see him, Professor?" 

She sighed. "Yes. But I need to be there, both as Headmistress and as an Order member, if what you've been trying to tell me about Mr Malfoy's possession is true." 

Harry nodded. He'd expected as much. And though he suspected the Diary was a Horcrux, and though Dumbledore had cautioned him to tell _nobody_ about the Horcruxes, Harry reckoned that cat was rather out of the bag at this point. 

When they got to the entrance to the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey demanded Harry turn over his wand for safekeeping. 

"Can the Headmistress hold it? I'd rather it stay in my sight, if you don't mind." 

Madame Pomfrey sighed. "I suppose so. But do be careful not to wind him up, Potter. He's healing from substantial physical trauma, as well as a fair bit of psychic trauma." 

"Of course," Harry said, concentrating on keeping his tone respectful. It was good practice for when he'd be talking to Malfoy, he figured. With that, he and McGonagall walked over to the corner of the infirmary. Draco had been placed far from the other couple of students in the ward, as though in isolation. 

"Hi, Malfoy," Harry said, pulling up a chair and showing the other boy that his hands were empty. "How are you doing?" 

Christ, Malfoy still looked so pale and fragile. Something in Harry's chest twisted a bit at the sight. 

"Well, I've had an evil wanker running rampant in my head for months, and I was nearly sliced to death three days ago. Considering that, I'm feeling brilliant, thank you." Malfoy's tone was dry, a mannerism Harry was oddly overjoyed to see returned. 

"Sounds like you're a bit back to your old self already, then. Er—sorry about the nearly killing you." 

Malfoy snorted. "Believe me, I might have thanked you if the option was to be dead over continuing to live with Tom." 

"Right." Harry winced. "What _was_ that, anyway? I mean, I know that it was Tom Riddle possessing you—he basically told me. But how on earth did that happen?" 

"It's a long story. But it started with this Diary I rescued for my father—shite, where did you put it?"

"Language, Mr Malfoy," McGonagall interjected. "And all your belongings were returned to your dormitory." 

"I—I wasn't sure whether it was even safe for me to touch it," Harry said. "Also, you were bleeding out and also I was trying not to get sent to Azkaban." 

"Right," Draco said. "Glad you didn't, by the way." 

Harry chuckled. "Thanks." 

"Anyway, it started last summer. Did you know that the Dark Lord is living in my home?" Harry nodded, but McGonagall gasped. "Yeah. And he was so narked off at my father that he set me several impossible tasks to complete whilst at Hogwarts. Such as killing the Headmaster and allowing the Death Eaters to take over." 

Neither Harry nor McGonagall spoke, so Draco continued. He told them about beginning to write to the Diary, about how he hadn't found any record of other diaries that wrote back, but that he'd figured that similar magic to what made a portrait work was at play. He told them about how he had made very half-hearted attempts on Dumbledore's life, none of them at all successful, and how sick he'd felt both at his own incompetence and at the idea that he was hurting innocent bystanders. He told them about how Tom had shown him how _he_ had opened the Chamber of Secrets when he was in school and killed Moaning Myrtle, and how very soon after, he'd started losing chunks of time—most of the time he might have slept, but also he would find himself in parts of the castle he didn't normally visit. 

He told them of the times he'd woken up covered in slime and blood, only to find that there had been messages left on the walls to terrorise the other Hogwarts residents. 

He told them about how he'd thought the nightmare was finally over when Tom had announced that the Basilisk had killed Dumbledore, but that it had seemed to ramp up even from there. 

"...It was getting to the point where the only time he'd let me out was when my body was required to be in lessons he found boring," Draco whispered, hoarse after all this talking. "But he'd still be there, in my mind, talking to me, commenting on what I did, telling me what a lovely good boy I was, telling me that I was _his_." He shuddered. 

Harry shuddered as well. He reached over and patted Draco's hand in what he hoped was a friendly way. "You're not his now," he said. "You don't have to serve the Dark Lord anymore. Not if you don't want to." 

Draco cast a weak smile at him. "Thanks," he said. "But I really have bollixed up things something grand, haven't I? That great snake—she must be around somewhere, still. And that Diary is bloody _dangerous_." 

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Bloody Voldemort leaving bits of—er, memories—in things like _diaries_."

Draco looked like he was gagging a bit at the sound of the name. His eyes remained wide as he choked out, "Wait, Tom Riddle _is the Dark Lord?_ " When Harry nodded, Draco continued. "Well then, I guess we're just _fucked_."

Once again, Headmistress McGonagall reminded Draco to watch his language. Especially, she said, as "Things aren't as bad as all that, Mr Malfoy."

Indeed, she had a suggestion. "Mr Malfoy, you said that Tom Riddle showed you a memory of his that involved calling up the snake, am I correct?" 

"Yes, Headmistress."

"So you could, perhaps, lead us to it?" 

Draco thought for a moment. "Not quite. I can bring you to the place where Tom opened the Chamber, but—especially now that I know he was the Dark Lord—I think he spoke Parseltongue both to open the chamber and to speak to Columbra."

"And," Harry said slowly, "it just sounded like English to you, since you were seeing Tom's memory of it?" 

Draco nodded, slumping. 

Harry laughed. "Well, at least the only other known Parselmouth in England is at your service, eh?"

*****

**  
_June, 1997_   
**

Despite Draco and Harry's protests, Professor McGonagall had decided it would be best to wait until the end of term, after exams, before anyone tried to go back to the Chamber of Secrets. In the meantime, for lack of a better plan, she took Riddle's Diary to her new office for safekeeping. 

"I've got a charmed trunk, Mr Malfoy," she said, glaring at both him and Harry, who'd been about to chime in. "It's impervious to Dark Magic. Your little Diary won't be able to cause any harm in it." 

Draco was relieved, actually, even though he felt very strange about leaving such a magical object in the hands of a Gryffindor, and a member of the Order of the Phoenix, no less. 

Until then, he and Harry met weekly with her and with Snape to determine the plan for destroying both the Diary and the Basilisk. Professor Snape even took the two boys to the Room of Hidden Things so they could practice blasting and severing hexes on the Vanishing Cabinet. 

"Wicked!" Harry cried as one of the cabinet's doors exploded into spear-like shards. 

Draco scowled as he ducked the shrapnel. 

"I think that might be it for the day," Professor Snape drawled. "You gentlemen surely have homework to be writing, or revising to do?" 

It was odd, really, how comfortable it felt for Draco to walk the corridors with Harry Potter. He knew that his fellow Slytherins (and probably students from other houses as well) had likely already reported his defection to the Dark Lord, but Draco hadn't liked his chances of succeeding as a spy, anyway. 

And Harry and his friends were fine revising partners. Especially Granger. 

Harry had other fine points. 

Draco wasn't sure when it was that he'd started to fancy Harry—it might have been before Tom had really taken over, even, during those nights when Tom had asked him to tell him more about the boy who was following him around and who had somehow survived the Killing Curse. Tom's fascination with him had sort of bled into Draco's mind; it was hard to relate all those stories of how Potter always won _everything_ without feeling some admiration creep over him. 

Or it might have been when he saw Potter all bright and righteous like an avenging angel trying to bind his wounds together when Draco came back to himself on the floor of Myrtle's bathroom. 

Harry seemed to be coming round, too, if the fact that he allowed Draco to take his hand on the way to the Library that afternoon was any indication. 

Of course, he couldn't just let it happen. 

"Draco?" 

Draco swallowed. "I—er, Harry," he said, years of elocution tutorials abandoning him. "This alright, then?" 

Harry smiled at Draco, and it was like the sun breaking through clouds, like the swoop of a broom, like the first words in a simple diary. "Yeah," he said, "it's alright." 

And Draco thought that maybe it was, or could be. And he was excited to have a plan that let him be around this man, a plan that didn't lead into slavery or prison for either of them. 

Hopefully it wouldn't lead to death, either. 

"Hopefully" was such an odd word. Draco still felt the creeping despair of the past year almost every day. He felt it when he thought of his parents, who were still beholden to the Dark Lord. He especially felt it when he thought of his mum, and of the fact that, by defecting to the Light Side, he'd chosen his own life over hers. 

He didn't think there was much of a chance of rescuing her. 

But he did think there was the possibility that he could redeem himself for the hell he'd helped loose on the castle, that by helping Harry and Snape and McGonagall kill the Basilisk and destroy the Diary, he might evade a term in Azkaban as well as a lifetime of servitude under the Dark Lord. 

He was excited to explore _friendship_ and _dating_ and a future of his own choosing. 

He could look at the tasks ahead with a sense of purpose. A sense of decency. 

So here he was. At the end of an astonishingly terrible year, hope started pushing up shoots in the soil of Draco's soul.


End file.
